Feeling Okay
by Basalit-an
Summary: Alistair fell into despair after he was betrayed at the Landsmeet. Now he wanders through a timeless drunken haze, trying to forget it. Warning for alcohol abuse.


**Warnings**: Detailed depiction of alcohol abuse

* * *

He was hungover, but that wasn't news. If he wasn't hungover, he was drunk. Or asleep, if it could even be called sleep.

Hand into pocket, he searched for his coin purse, his clumsy fingers fumbling for the emaciated bag. He'd be lucky to find two silvers to rub together in there, and he knew it. He didn't care. What could money do for him at this point?

The bar got closer as he approached it; faces blurred in painful vision, blending together with the dim colors of tapestry, bright flaming points of candles and letters that made no sense. He felt nauseous, but sucked down air until he found himself leaning heavily on the scratched wooden bar counter. Blinking slowly to clear his bleary eyes, nothing seemed to clear. Perhaps he needed spectacles now. That would be his luck.

The coin purse emptied into his palm, and he very, very carefully counted the measly pieces of glinting copper. Thirteen. He had thirteen copper coins to his name, a name which should command respect, dignity, or at the very least, a friendly smile. That's what being a bastard does to a man.

The bartender—Maker knows what his name was—looked at the swaying man standing at the bar, expecting his order. So what would he like today? Whiskey got him there quick, but it was expensive. Ale, on the other hand, was cheap, but it certainly had an unbecoming effect on his not-so-firm abdomen. Wine, now, was sweet, strong, inviting. Like a dream wife. Like a girl he knew once, one who had slayed an Archdemon even while she showed mercy to men who could never deserve it.

His mind reeled. He ordered whiskey.

This pub wouldn't oblige those who sought entertainment in a drink. They came only one way, pure in a goblet, with none of that frou-frou nonsense to muddle things up. When a good drink is drowned in sweet juices, it loses the point, the bite, and made everything complicated. And it was expensive.

Unsure of what his thoughts were doing, exactly, he shot down the tumbler of whiskey, grinning humorlessly at the burn in his throat. It'd taken a while before he could drink down a whole shot without coughing. He felt a small swell of pride at this accomplishment. And it _was_ an accomplishment.

The first one wouldn't do anything, not anymore. If he closed his eyes, he could still see her face, picture it in every detail. At first, warm, loving, holding a tenderness meant only for him. Then turning cold against him as she declared Loghain Mac Tir officially conscripted into the Grey Wardens.

How could she do that, after weeks of hunting the man? And after she faced a man almost on his knees, begging her not to allow it.

Never trust a mage.

He bought another drink, throwing it down his burning throat the moment his hand touched glass. Or stone. Whatever it was.

Watching passively as his dirty fingers slid two more copper coins to the bartender, he might admit that he had been wrong in his decision to leave the Grey Wardens. Where he once had a title, a purpose, a certain future, he was now a drunken waif, aimlessly wandering between taverns. But he reminded himself that he still had his honor, his dignity, his name. Should he choose to wield those things...

With the third drink burning in his belly, he could finally smile. Images that were clear became the Fade, and he felt muscles relax even if he told them not to. His neck felt heavy, his head floaty, his feet on clouds. After he purchased his fourth drink, he eased himself onto a bar stool while he still had the sense to sit down before the drink made him.

He sipped at this one, proving that he still had control, so long as her face didn't haunt him any longer. He could close his eyes and see only blessed darkness, a welcome abyss.

When he opened his eyes again, a woman was standing beside him, orange and pink robes straining his tired eyes. Her head was alight with red hair, her voice soft with Orlesian accent, and for a brief moment, he felt he could reach out and hug an old friend from his past.

But this woman was not that old friend; redheads were apparently common in Orlais.

She had asked him something—how long had he been there? How should he know? He'd given up time. He could never know how many moments had floated away on amber waves since he'd pulled himself from fitful sleep. Time, like many things, no longer had any meaning to him.

Now she was saying other things, things he could only partially catch—about finding peace in the Chant of Light, of finding sobriety in Andraste's kind words. Focusing on her face seemed to take a long time, but when he had, he asked, "So, what if I don't want to be sober?" He tried to sound like he was joking, but he knew his words were sincere. He didn't want to be sober. He didn't need it.

Her face became shrouded in mist, and as the girl started to blow on again about Andraste, two more copper coins slid across the counter.

It no longer hurt to slosh back the gold liquid. He took small sips, nursing the drink, wanting to revel in his intoxication. He liked to close his eyes and let himself drift off into a numb place, where he didn't have to think, didn't have to worry, didn't want to remember the past. But that Chantry lark continued to harp, and somewhere in his body, he felt the pinpricks of irritation.

With half the drink left, he shot it back, dropping the act. There wasn't any point in going slow, not at this point. He'd never been one to go slow.

He sucked down breaths through his mouth, turning to the little lark beside him. He had a thought to reason with her, but reason was something he forgot to bring with him when he left Fereldan; it was still back in a time when his life meant something to someone.

He peered at her, blinking for clarity, but only saw a woman who would hold every disappointment against him. He wanted to break that face, sometimes. Other times, he wanted to kiss it.

Shutting the lark out, convincing himself she was long gone when the reality was a mystery, seemed to solve his problem. He stared down at his last three coppers. Only enough for one more whiskey. It could be the one. It could be the drink, burning bright in his belly, that would get him to find himself again.

He slid two more coins forward, then the light went dim and his limp body slammed to the floor. There was a moment when he didn't breathe; then he started to snore, awash in intoxicated dreams.


End file.
